Chronicles of the Shattered King
by Pringified
Summary: I am a scion of Demacia, a slave to its ideals. I am the exemplar, and I am king. Yet my people lie burned, their souls lost under the fire of stars. The pillars of my country lie ruined, white marble to grey ash. But I still stand. and I will do what I do, for I am but a dog, trained in all but one skill. I am still the Lightshield, and I do what must be done.
1. Prologue: Here, there be dragons

The fields of justice lay charred and broken, the league of legends sundered, and debris lay in forsaken ruins around grounds once decorated with the might of nations. The machines of science and great magic that had formerly transfigured the raw energy of Valoran lay rent, cold and grey, mere shadows of what they had been. Even the nexus, once privy to the touch of the powerful, now served as a home to the fauna of Frejord. The treaty of the league of legends had been once celebrated as a triumph of brutal diplomacy, a compromise between nations cowed by the possibility of another Rune War. Sickened by the lives he had to take, the life of his father that was taken, and faced with the threat of a Rune War brought on by increasingly violent border confrontations, the Lightshield, backed by the might of Demacia, rolled the dice for peace, and strongarmed the nations of Valoran into submission.

The prince, with the wealth of Demacian gold, had gathered the brightest legal minds that Valoran had to offer in order to craft a treaty that would bring an end to the Rune War that he knew would come. The framework formed had called for a neutral field whereby champions from each nation would be selected to do individual battle with each other, with the interest of his sovereign as prize. A neutral leadership of magician elites, each drawn from the major powers of Valoran, would be conscripted to oversee the bureaucracy of the neutral fields – the league of legends. To retain the image of neutrality, the governing magicians would be forced to renounce any former allegiance, be it political or familial. In return, they would be given complete jurisdiction over the league; an absolute separation of powers.

Bandlecity, Ionia, Piltover and Targon – long-time confederates of Demacia bound by centuries of trade and diplomatic ties, had been quick to add their names to the treaty, The Noxians and her allied nations had resisted initially – understandably – for their ideological hatred of Demacian ideals ran in the centuries. In reply, the Crownguards were sent, emissaries filled with the uncompromising words of the Lightshield: _Sign, or the children of your people will not be alive to see war. I will see peace in my reign, even if the world should burn. The_ Noxian high command had railed for a time, with the Black Rose and the house of Du Courteau spearheading the call for violent retaliation. For days, Valoran trembled at the precipice of a Rune War as the two superpowers readied their allies and their might. Finally, the Noxian Grand General, Swain, a man of implacable humours, had closed his eyes, and sighed.

"I will sign, for I am sick of death and will not be responsible for the death of this world."

And so, despite the oceans of blood shed by untold generations of unnamed heroes, open conflict in Valoran was ended with the flourish of pen over paper. During the early days of the treaty, the magicians had condemned their conscription with ruthless vigour, but even they had eventually accepted their lot – the alternative was to go against the might of the Lightshield, and none was willing test the mettle of the Demacian. However, the relative peace that followed the inception of the league of legends was a peace enshrined in policies of mutual destruction, and the unresolved rivalries of old still ran deep. This viciousness found its way into the combat of the ironically named fields of justice, where warriors, turned bitter by years of fighting, fought savagely, their memories untouched by treaty.

However, the peace endured, and hidden by the trappings of time, even the bitterest of memories had to fade. The years passed, and peace began to lull the populace into complacency – the conflicts in the fields of justice quickly became a popular spectator spot, and a thriving black market rose around the victories of individual champions. Some of the warriors, naturally, rose to fame. Grandmaster Jax, Warwick of Zaun, and even the Lightshield were names the people flourished, diplomacy reigned, and the treaty of the league of legends ushered in a golden age of peace – the ocean of blood spilled by the armies of the past replaced with the souls of individual champions.

The Demacian diplomats had even successfully arranged a meeting between Swain and the Lightshield in a bid to ease relations between the two superpowers – a historic meeting ripe with potential to alter the flow of power in Valoran.

For the first time in centuries, the citizenry was able to see beyond their immediate needs of survival, and the sciences flourished as universities, made opulent with government gold, opened their doors to the general public. The emergence of fledging public spheres across the nations of Valoran promoted heated debates often held in pristine courtyards, with appreciative crowds forming around the oratorical. Young men and women, cleansed of the spectre of death that hung for years over their brows, argued passionately about matters of import. In a bid to harness this newfound thirst for knowledge, the Lightshield promoted a culture of meritocracy throughout Valoran, and the brightest minds of the generation were soon placed in key areas of civil governance.

However, despite all their advancements, not one of the philosophers, scholars or poets could have foreseen the fated throw of dice that doomed them all.

In the darkest of nights, unknown to all but a few, assassins scaled the ridges of Mount Targon, their agility an ode to the perfection of their art. The sleeping aspect was found in the temple of the silver city, and quickly dispatched, a vicious slash across a vulnerable throat ending a life spent in training. Pantheon's eyes had flickered open at the moment of his death, and a deep dread shone in his eyes before they went blank with the stillness of eternity.

A rumble shook the mountains then, and deep within a cave in the bowels of Targon, eyes that had been closed for decades flickered open as the chains that had held its power at bay for millennia finally broke. The cave had been dug with magic, and its height alone spanned twice that of Mount Targon herself. In the space offered by the earth, its width stretched out as far as the eyes could see, and yet the bulk of the creature housed within defied the logic of men. A serpentine head reared, and balls of liquid flame poured from claws larger than houses. The creature regarded its surroundings with a gaze that that saw the birth of universes, and it seethed with anger at the humiliation of its captivity.

With a contemptuous gesture at the roof of stone above its head, it summoned a dwarf star that split the mountain in two. Lava, liquidated stone that gave at the heat of a heavenly body, poured, flowing down scales impervious to heat. Freedom beckoned with its sweet call, and the ancient consciousness of the Star Forger answered. Two stars joined the first, and they circled the awakened celestial as he rose from the corpse of Targon. The cities of the Rakkor and the Solari lay burning, none of the hastily enacted shields proving sufficient before the heat of a newly birthed star. The temple of the Lunari, situated at the base of the mountain, lay shimmering in the moonlight, its shields barely holding back the might of Aurelion Sol. The aspect of the moon, Diana, held there, the power of the Lunari artefacts defying the strength of the newly risen god.

The nostrils of Aurelion Sol twitched, and it inhaled the magic-laden air of Valoran. Starved for millennia, the Aurelion Sol quickly absorbed the ambient magic in the atmosphere, and its body expanded, filling the skies of Runeterra. Unnoticed by the god, Diana screamed as the energy of the swelling celestial struck deep within her, shattering her shields and sundering her magic. Such was the force of the energy that the moonblade of the Lunari shattered, ripping Diana's arm from her body, and throwing the aspect deep into unconsciousness. Above, the body of Aurelion Sol shuddered with the joy of freedom, and a roar of starfire swept out from him – an unconscious, uncontrolled release of power that scoured Valoran, destroying the homes, cities, and nations. Staring up in the night sky, the god relaxed, and his senses tore into the universe in search of his children.

He stilled, for now, while, unnoticed to him, Valoran burned.


	2. Prologue 2: Of fire and men

_While I would not normally write a second prologue, I felt the only way to really bring across the scale of destruction brought on by the starfire was to view it from the eyes of easily disposable characters. I hope you enjoy the short length of this chapter, cause' the next one's gonna be pretty darn long._

* * *

The gates of Demacia lay cold, frozen in the frosts of deep winter. The darkness was salient, and the corpses of dead stars lent their dull radiance to the gloom. In the shade of night, Demacia slept, secure in the protection of the Lightshield. This night, the responsibility for the nation state lay in the hands of House Buvelle, and the guards that boasted its crest of golden harp against deep black did their duties as protectors with vigilance, for the Maven did not look kindly on those who would carelessly risk Demacian lives.

"It's cold", the first guard mused, his weathered cloak bunched around shoulders too long in the chill.

"It happens to be in the middle of winter", the second, younger guard snorted derisively. Lured by the promises of military glory, the young man had joined the Buvellian guard ready for the glories of battle, only for the treaty of the league of legends to rob him of a meteoritic rise he knew would have come had the preparations for the Rune War reached fruition. Instead, bound by legal writ, he guarded walls that had not seen enemies for near a decade. With the advent of peace, the passionate flame of his hope had burned to mere embers, and the young man knew his remaining years in the night watch would be filled with the tedium of tranquillity.

"And that's why it is cold", the older man snapped. "What troubles you, Jonas? You've been of ill humour since supper."

"I'm sorry, Kurea, my friend", Jonas mumbled as rubbed a sleeve stained with the dried leavings of previous similar journeys across his nose. "For years we have guarded this gate when all know that no enemies will come. We trawl this damn wall like beetles while the Noxians sleep in warm hearths."

"Ah," Kurea smiled as he stretched. "But what if do they come, lad? What if, while we lie in hearths warmed by fires, our enemies enter Demacia? Never mind the dishonour, how would you fare when Maven scours the flesh from your back?"

"Oh, but that's a pretty lady. I might be of mind to lay for a while if she would do that to m-", Jonas paused, eyes widening as he stared over the older hunched shoulders of the older man.

"Kurea, what's that?"

His partner turned, and his eyes widened. "Fire", he whispered.

Before the two men gleamed a wave of molten orange, golden flames that roared over the wintery horizon. It appeared to them as a pale yellow glow, but the unmistakeable shards of heat marked it as a creature to be feared. The fire pealed in the direction of the city gates, and even from where they stood, it blasted the men with tongues of pain.

Aged with experience, Kurea was first to act. Grabbing the younger guardsmen by the arm, he shoved him towards the stout oaken door that led the way to the inner keep. "Wake Junim." Kurea spoke authoritatively, exuding a calm he did not feel. "Tell him to fetch the water brigades. We will need them."

Stunned by the sudden appearance of imminent disaster, Jonas stumbled, usual athleticism deserting him in his shock. The guard floundered, and nearly fell from the force of his partner's push.

"What is that?"

"I don't know. Fetch Junim, Jonas. Now."

As the young man ran to fetch the sergeant of the watch, Kurea turned, and all calmness fled.

The once indistinct orange glow shone brighter now, and from his vantage point, he could see that it was not fire after all, but a wave of molten lava that roiled with inexorable speed towards his home.

A psychic scream tore through his mind, and he gasped, sensing the horror behind the scream of the Maven. The naked terror in the magick drove him to his knees, choking him with its power. As his mind reeled with agony, Kurea struggled to his feet, vomit retching from deep within his bowels. He placed a gauntleted hand on the rough surface of stone, his body yearning instinctively for the quiet companionship of earth. Instead, he burned, flesh melting to bone. Kurea struggled to open his eyes, but saw nothing as the viscous membrane contained within his eyeballs withered in the face of starfire. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound could emerge from a throat charred black from heat.

As starfire cleansed him, his last thoughts were of winter, and how good it was to finally feel warmth again.


	3. The Shields of Men

Dialogue has always been the hardest part of writing for me to master, but I think I gave a semi-good account of myself here. Just a character building chapter – the fun starts soon. Cheers, buds. If there's anything that reads awkwardly, please let me know so I can improve!

* * *

 _The Lightshield_

Anger washed over Jarvan, a wrath deep and cold, simmering on the edge of insanity. The king had seen, with his own eyes, the roiling wave of starfire that pierced through his city, obliteration in its wake. As the dragon's power loomed above him, terrifying in its intensity, his thoughts were solely on the heartbeats of life he knew he had left. Naked save for his beddings, the unarmed king had cursed helplessly, and, in the moments before certain death, had felt a profound sense of humiliation that pricked at a soul born to arrogance.

 _This is my city. Mine_.

But yet he lived, his death averted. When the fires of Aurelion Sol blazed through him, Jarvan remained unharmed, untouched by the inferno that swirled about him. The wooden floor beneath his feet disappeared in the pyre, and the Demacian king fell heavily. Only years of training and battle experience saved him from a broken neck, and he rolled, dissipating the energy of his fall. Slammed face first into the hard stone of what had once been his palace, Jarvan screamed, for the obsidian of cooled lava, while appearing deceptively cool, still steamed with starfire.

Tearing molten skin from a face burned by fire, Jarvan ripped his body from the ground, senses swimming in a sea of pain. His hands were blistered and torn, and the soles of his feet melted into molten flesh.

"G-god, oh god, please," he shrieked, falling to his back, body gyrating in agony. His body screamed, and he rolled in futile torment, kingly dignity replaced with sheer desperation.

Pain, as always, served as a great equalizer of men.

Jarvan sobbed as the pain grew, for the inviting black of unconsciousness remained lost to him. Tears streamed down a ruined face, and he begged for a release that would not come. In the midst of his anguish, unknown to him, ice formed, encompassing him. The lava beneath him turned brittle with the sudden appearance of cold, and shattered like glass. A light, bright with summer green, streamed up his broken body, and the soothing embrace of the Maven's Etwahl poured forth, soothing the raw agony of his wounds. The pain faded, for now, and his consciousness drowned at its withdrawal.

Hours later, Jarvan awoke to the sweet absence of torment, and his eyes flared wide at the memory of pain. He closed his eyes and remembered the shock of freezing flesh, accompanied with a cold that seeped deep into his soul. Dread struck him then, and he ran panicked hands through his body, feeling for wounds, and expecting the indecency of charred flesh. Instead, he felt smooth, unscarred skin. Pink and raw, but without blisters of seeping pus. A wave of relief swept through him, and tears sprang to his eyes, threatening once again to unman him. But the memory of his degradation by fire remained fresh in him, and he rubbed furiously at his eyes.

 _I will be damned if I am shamed twice in one day_.

His immediate concerns taken care of, he became aware of eyes on him.

Looking up, he saw the figure of the archer queen, Ashe, towering above him. Accompanying her was the Maven, who pulsed the quiet of companionship to her king. Ashe grinned, a lopsided smile that spoke of insincerity.

"Lightshield, you awake."

Grasping the tenuous shreds of his will, his newly healed throat tried desperately to form words he needed.

"W-what happened to me?" He croaked, his words strange and alien.

"Avarosa stole you from the christening of fire, Lightshield, but not before its kiss made your skin bubble."

"Thank you, for saving me. Without you, I would have died," he mumbled, the need of diplomacy overcoming, for a moment, his humiliation. In the privacy of his mind's sanctum, he raged.

 _Saved by a damn barbarian, in my own god damn city_.

"It was the Maven who replaced the embrace of fire with one of her own." Ashe gestured languidly at Sona. "But you are welcome, Lightshield."

He turned to Sona, and this time his smile was genuine, for the Maven of house Buvelle was a sight welcomed at his palace. "Bless you, Sona", for the magic of your etwahl," he said, and the Maven pulsed her welcome.

Taking a deep breath, Jarvan looked about him, and took in his surroundings with eyes trained by a lifetime of administration, surveying the extent of the destruction. His body, he found, laid on a courtyard not quite of stone. Utterruin surrounded him, an emptiness that stretched miles in every direction. The spires of Demacia had vanished, completely and utterly, and only the obsidian of cooled lava could be seen. Years ago, when he was a child, Jarvan's father had spoken to him of the terrors of the void. "A black nothingness," the then king had said. "Devoid of life as we know it – and filled with the madness of the damned."

Before him now stood such a scene. Black, utter, nothingness.

The only glimpse of colour came from the magic of the Avarosa, the legendary ice bow of Ashe, which had been utilized to form an island of ice in order to protect them from the stones that still burned. At its edges, steam bubbled as the elements of heat and ice collided. Six other soldiers had survived, and they kneeled together near the centre, huddled, in various stages of shock, their minds barely caught up with the events of the day.

Turning back, he saw that Sona and Ashe were looking at him, and he felt, once again, the burden of leadership in their stares.

He was still the Lightshield.

"What is it?" He asked.

Ashe shrugged, a careless twirl of slim shoulders. "You are the Lightshield, and here you are king."

"A king presupposes a people to rule," Jarvan replied, sardonically, "and a place to rule them from." He swept out an arm. "Do you see either people or place? Besides, you are a queen."

 _Assuming Freljord can be considered a nation_.

"Yes, but I am a guest in your country. Here, I am a woman."

"A commoner," he answered, drily, "with a magic bow of ice. Very well, tell me what happened here, and what we owe our survival to."

Before Ashe could muster a reply, a voice, deep like thunder, cut through the desolation. "To _whom_ , not to _what_ ," it interrupted, "you owe your survival to."

A man, a giant, amongst the six he had originally presumed to be part of his palace regime stood up. Walking to the seated Jarvan, he sat himself, uninvited, opposite the king. Jarvan noted the face of chiselled marble and the locks of bronze hair that flowed to the man's shoulders. A strap of leather was tossed over those shoulders, exposing more flesh than it protected. In one hand the man held a massive hammer of iron, its prodigious size an insanity for all but him. The sheer mass of the man was imposing, for he exuded power. Memories from the past rose unbidden, and a name swelled from Jarvan's lips.

"Taric?"

"King," the man replied.

"May I ask", Jarvan inquired, an edge in his voice, "what a _Demacian_ outlaw is doing in the city of _Demacia_?"

"You may", said the man, his voice soft, a low rumble. "But first, I must correct an inaccuracy, for I will have to kill you the next utter it. You are no longer speaking to an outlaw, king. I have obeyed the Crownsguard, and from Targon I have earned the crown of stone."

The threat left its welt on Jarvan, but as he was, there was nothing he could do but swallow his battered pride.

 _Later._

"Oh, good," sneered Jarvan, voice sardonic. "So I have the honour of speaking to a Demacian citizen. Vey well, for now, shall we put aside the legality of your citizenship? What happened here, and how did you save us?"

"Ah, yes." Taric chuckled, and stood, muscles bulging under the weight of his body. "Do you know the name the weak have given me, king? They call me the Father, for in their eyes, I put the might of all fathers to shame. I am Valoran's shield, as you are Demacia's, and in this night of wanton destruction, I have come." Swinging out his hands, Taric smiled expansively. "I have come."

Jarvan stared disbelievingly at the man.

 _By god, has Targon driven him insane?_

"And I supp-."

"But as you have three questions for me, so I will have three answers for you," the man continued. "Firstly, I do not know what happened here, king, and I suspect no one does. Secondly, I am here for I am here, and my business is of my own. And finally, you were saved for I decided when fire struck that I did not want death to yet claim you. I am the Father, I am who I am, and for I am who I am, none can refuse me, not even death."

"What I believe the man means, Lightshield," interjected Ashe uncomfortably in the silence that followed, "is that while we might be safe now, your questions can wait until we have a plan of action."

Jarvan nodded, and he dragged himself to his feet. His wounds still ached, for they were not fully recovered. But his body held, and despite the lack food or water, as he did not know when the last he ate or drank, he felt whole.

 _The madman can wait_.

The leather clothing of the Demacian infantry clothed him, and while he cringed at the thought of the women seeing him unclothed while he laid vulnerable in the clutches of the Avarosa, he nodded appreciatively at its quality.

 _It will have to do_.

"You, men," he snapped at the huddled soldiers, and they sprung to their feet, the inbred authority of his voice snapping them from their unpleasant stupors. "Do you have supplies with you?"

"Yes, highness," a man with the ensign of bronze, a sergeant, replied, "one day's supply for each of the men."

"Good, give me yours."

Grabbing the offered loaf of hard black bread and the accompanying cheese, Jarvan tore into them, washing down the food with a canteen of water. Turning to his compatriots, he spoke, the Lightshield once more. "Ashe is right. Be ready, for we have to move."

"Where to?" Ashe queried, Avarosa gleaming deep blue.

Pointing to the North, Jarvan replied, "we will move to the lands of the Freljord and pray that the fires faltered before the mountains. My Crownsguard, with the Seneschal and the Half-wyrm, still war against the Frostguard. We will meet them there, and then we will march against the fire, for I intend to find those responsible for the destruction of my city."

Ashe nodded, eyes bleak and cold, and her fist clenched around the might of the Avarosa.

Moving to regard Taric, Jarvan addressed him, "we will speak again soon."

"Maybe," the giant replied. Hauling the hammer up his shoulder, he began walking away.

"And where do you think you're going?" Asked the Lightshield.

"I have not decided yet."

"I wasn't aware that I was giving suggestions, Taric. We shall travel together."

"I am aware, but the Father is not bound to you. Yes, you are _a_ king, but you are not _my_ king."

 _I am the Lightshield, you son of a whore, and you will obey me_.

"Good, at least you recognize that I am _a_ king," Jarvan said, "You are aware then, that at a single word from me there are seven who will kill you. Choose your next words carefully, for I will not have my authority challenged in front of my men."

Turning to regard the Lightshield, Taric chuckled, a mirth that bubbled from deep within his chest. "Indeed," he said, "I will choose my next words with care, for I do not want my children to die. Very well, king, I think that I will follow, for I believe you still have need of a father's love."

* * *

They travelled on foot, and for hours, though they walked without rest, destruction remained a constant companion. Gone were the trees and pathways that once illuminated Demacia, and only emptiness endured. Libraries, universities, courtyards; trappings of civilization hundreds of years in the making – all gone in a night of dark terror. Time had no meaning here in this land of purgatory, for the dust thrown up by the wave of fire obscured everything, and they walked under a sky stained with the colours of perpetual dusk. Food and water were scarce, for they had the supplies of five for a party of nine.

"We need to resupply soon, Lightshield," said Ashe, breaking the silence of melancholy that the emptiness brought.

"Then let us hope the Serpentine River still contains life, assuming she can be found," replied Jarvan, irritation surfacing as he gestured at the gloom that surrounded them. "The fires levelled every landmark for miles around and this damn dusk is making navigating by the stars impossible."

"Ah, king, so it is your wish that these skies be clear?" The rumbling bass of Taric interjected.

"It would certainly make travelling easier."

"Why did you not ask?"

Jarvan rolled his eyes, and sighed. He detested Taric, for the lack of respect the man showed him bordered on blasphemy. He had considered ordering for the death of the giant earlier, and would have done so, had not a glint in the man's ice blue eyes stilled him; it promised death and Jarvan had wanted to live.

"Very well, Taric," he said, "I would like clear skies."

The giant nodded his acquiesce, and he turned his gaze to the skies of unnatural black. Raising his hammer above his head, he intoned, a single word filled with sonorous power, "begone."

A moment of pregnant silence, and the heavens _exhaled_. Ash and smog were blown apart, and the ridges of Targon ruled the skies once more. However, despite the might of the mountain, the throne of the heavens was occupied by one other. Towering above the spires of the mountain, a creature of dizzying proportions rose through the clouds. The colossus, its head surrounded by the simmering purple of cosmic energy, dwarfed that of even Targon. Its sinewy body filled the sky with splendour, and its mass obscured the glow of the moon. The magic of the aurora borealis danced along its flanks, and the northern lights lent it a majesty rarely seen in the universe.

The party froze before the incomprehensible sight before them.

"What the hell," began Jarvan, "is that?" Turning accusingly to Taric, Jarvan levelled a sword at the man. "You will explain yourself, now."

"I… do not know of it, king," the giant replied, his huge mass almost infantile before the power of the creature.

"It obeyed you!" Jarvan snarled. He gestured sharply. Swords sung from sheaths, the strings of an etwahl hummed, and the chill of the Avarosa filled the clearing.

The giant lifted his hammer slowly from his shoulder, and faced his accusers. His voice was soft, his deep bass hypnotic.

"You extended a warning to me before the start of our journey, king, and courtesy demands I do the same. What has begun as a simple jest now is now, by your actions, a game where men can die. The Father is no man, and so I will not die. But you are a king, and this hammer has crushed the skull of kings. Your mute may strike me down, or your archer may pepper me with arrows. That is true, and that may happen. But how much do you trust them, king, while I stand before you?"

Jarvan licked his lips, and indecision radiated from him. He was suddenly starkly aware that he stood no longer in the transient authority of his palace, surrounded by magic and men. Fuelled by the grandeur of his blood, and surrounded by the wealth of his forebears, leadership had come easily to him. Now, in this bleak apocalypse, stripped of all that made him king, he was unsure, and uncertain. The promise of death in the giant's eyes unmanned him, and ever since the confrontation in the ruins of Demacia, he could feel the subtle shift of power, tenacious at best, shift in favour to Taric. When the man spoke, the soldiers listened, obeying instinctively with more than simple obedience. Men, Jarvan knew, like the animals their forebears were, intuitively followed the strongest.

And Taric emanated strength.

"Explain to me then," the king mumbled, clinging on to the vestiges of Demacian pride. "Why did the creature obey you?"

"I do not know," Taric answered, running fingers through ash-stained hair, "if I am even certain the skies cleared because of the creature. But believe me when I say my only intention was to bring levity to an atmosphere of gloom. If I controlled such a creature, I would be flying the skies, not here with you."

Jarvan gestured again, sharply, and the weapons were once more sheathed.

"Thank you, king," said the giant, nodding his acquiesce. "I did not want to have to kill you."

An arrow of ice flashed past Taric's ear, so close that frost coated the left side of his face.

"The Lightshield is not alone, big man."

Ignoring Ashe, the giant turned towards Jarvan, forced his gaze, and smiled.

Nodding his thanks to the archer, Jarvan motioned curtly to the giant, met his piercing gaze for a moment, then turned away. "I apologize for my rashness. This is not a time where conflict should come between friends. The creature can wait until Freljord."

 _All debts will be paid in full come Freljord_.

The party travelled on in silence. With the skies cleared, they found their path easily enough, and the great river Serpentine soon rose before them, the rage of her froth marking her splendour. The Lightshield, anxious to cross, immediately set the small regime of soldiers to building rafts that would get them over the river. The Maven's etwahl hummed, and her magic flowed over the soldiers, empowering them with strength, and speed. Wordlessly, Taric lent his aid to the task, his massive strength equalling the work of all five men combined.

The creature still towered, motionless, and without sound – as it had been for hours. And though it had not moved, all who viewed it knew that the creature was mighty beyond belief. Its power cast a pall over the party, and they hurried for the promised safety of the Freljord highlands.

Suddenly, and abruptly, the creature's serpentine head seemed to heave. Its maw opened, swelled, and ash swarmed across the heavens once more; and with it, the dusk of the damned returned.

Swearing explosively, one of the soldiers jumped back, and cursed when he fell into the waves. Pausing his work, Taric looked up to the ash-covered skies before meeting the eyes of the Lightshield.

"I do not believe I will be receiving the blame for this, king?"

Jarvan grimaced at him, and he was readying a scathing reply when Ashe suddenly gasped. The archer had been freezing parts of the Serpentine in order to fish – their supplies were nearly empty and required replenishing. Already, a pile of the river's bounty lay by the banks. Now, she stared above, and Jarvan could see the gleam of realization in her eyes.

"What is it, Ashe?" He asked, pushing the matter of Taric aside.

 _He will come to learn of his error._

"The ash, the clouds, and this weather," the archer replied, her voice soft with awe. "I know where it's coming from. The creature is breathing."

Both Jarvan and Taric stared at the archer, nonplussed.

"Do you mean to say," the giant began, "that the very breath of this creature contains within it the might to change the heavens itself?"

"Not as expressively," replied the archer sardonically, "but essentially, yes. The long-lived often take breaths that stretch. The Cryophoenix takes no more than five breaths an hour, and she has lived for hundreds of years."

The royal tutors had been thorough with their education of the king, and their lessons were firmly ingrained in his memory. "In times of crisis," a wizened tutor of war had told him in his youth, "to consider will be to squander, and to squander will be to die. The debates of the town hall are for intervals of peace. Come calamity, should you find yourself one day absent of information, remember this creed: work with the knowledge you are offered, plan for the simplest route, and save your doubts for peace."

This credo had served Jarvan well over the years, and had even been the grounds of the league of legends treaty. Even now, with his mind whirring with doubts, he filtered away the unnecessary, concentrating on the necessary and task his blood had thrown onto him.

 _Freljord was all that mattered_.

"It does not matter," he said, gesturing for the wide-eyed soldiers to return to their labours. "Any action that creature does is beyond our control, and so, for now, we must ignore it. We must hurry to Freljord to join with the Demacian army. Other considerations can come after."

Turning to him, Taric rumbled, "you are very certain of your victory in Freljord, king."

"As I well should be," the king replied. "the Crownsguards outnumber the Frostguard three to one. It would be a miracle if they lost, especially with Garen in command."

"Ah, but the denizens of wintery Freljord number in the thousands. What of the Winter's Claw? Or the tribes of the barbarian Tryndamere? Why should they see the Demacian army as anything other than a threat?"

"Because Freljord will not turn on its queen, and all know that Demacia is her ally." Hissed Ashe suddenly, the venom in the archer's voice carrying even from where she stood, beyond the banks of the Serpentine. "The Winter's Claw are small, infantile, weak. They are led by a fool. The barbarians are mine insomuch as Tryndamere is mine, and I own him, in body and in soul." Leaping from ice to land, the archer queen walked up to join the men.

"Garen must win my Freljord."

Jarvan nodded at the woman's words, feeling her fire course through his veins. He, better than most, understood the fierce call of the land.

"So they must, queen, on the promise we shared so long ago."

" _Must_ is a word strongly differentiated from _will_ , royal beings," said the giant, "The questions I ask are asked as I am, by the king's command, made companion of your travels. So, by the word of the king, answer this: to what am I heading to?"

"You are heading to a battle. Started by Freljord, pursued by the Avarosa, and now ended by me" replied Jarvan. "But I do realize that you, by your own words, are not Demacian, and therefore are not bound to me. You may leave, but before you do, I shall ask you this: you once shared a friendship with Garen, and Lux. Would you lend them, if not me, your aid? Demacia has need of your strength once more."

 _He holds me in contempt, but he will stay._

Taric smiled, an unpleasant, feral smile; a smile that stank of anger. "Ah," he said, "you seek to, of course, manipulate me with the same man that sent me to Targon to die. But that is immaterial, for I am the Father, and I do what must be done to protect my children. And so, before I give my answer, king, tell me truly why Freljord, and the Crownsguard, matter."

The gaze of the Lightshield met that of the giant, and for the first time, it held Taric's piercing stare.

"Whether it is the monstrosity in the sky or some Noxian villain, someone has to pay for the lives of my people. Revenge requires an army, Taric, and that is why, above all else, they must win the Freljord."

Taric laughed then, a booming sound that echoed though the bog that surrounded them.

"Have you noticed, king, that since Demacia, not once have you made mention of your people."

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean, king, is not once have we spoken of your dearly departed Demacians. Do not lie to me that you care."

Jarvan was silent for a moment, and his voice was cold when he replied, "My oath and blood are Demacia's, and my life is for my city to spill. When I die, I will do so willingly, for as my life began with, it too shall win with the will of Demacia. My people died with their city, as it is right, for it is _wrong_ that their corpses should not lie with hers. But I am Demacia, Taric, once shield of Demacia, and she spared me for a reason. I was spared to witness the rebirth of Demacia once more."

Taric stood for a moment, staring at the man he once called king.

"It appears", he said, "that I will travel to Freljord with you, king, for it seems that Demacia has need of the Father once more."


End file.
